Fault Lines
by ihearttony
Summary: After being stabbed, Chase has to ask for help from the one person he chose not to forgive. A follow-up to season eight's "Nobody's Fault".


**Author's Notes:** _I haven't written any fanfiction in forever. Of course, when the muse hits me it's for a fandom that has long been dead. I hadn't watched House in years, but I saw a tumbler gif of Chase getting stabbed and went back and watched the entire series. I love Chase and House, and the episode "Nobody's Fault" hit all of my hurt/comfort buttons. This story almost wrote itself and is completely self-indulgent. Ignore any medical inaccuracies since I did almost no research. If anyone out there still misses a little Robert Chase and Gregory House, enjoy._

Chase blinked and opened his eyes, struggling to take in a variety of sensations at one time. He wasn't at home in his own bed; the antiseptic smell, rhythmic beeping, and uncomfortable mattress quickly reminded him he was in the hospital, not as a doctor but as a patient. The stabbing flashed through his mind and he winced involuntarily, remembering the surreal moment he saw the scalpel sticking out of his chest. He was lucky to be alive, and if the incident had occurred anywhere except a few feet from an OR, he probably wouldn't have survived. The paralysis, well that was just an extra piece of shit on top of an already shitastic day. He curled his toes for reassurance they could still move, satisfied when they bent downward on command. The relief that swept through him at such a simple action was undeniable. He wasn't too proud to admit that the idea of never moving his legs again was utterly terrifying. There was still no way to know how much movement his limbs would recover, but at least House had given him a chance to walk again. The deadness below his waist was well and truly gone, replaced by a growing sense of discomfort that had probably caused him to wake.

The lights in the room were dimmed and everything was quiet; he must have slept for several hours. The dark shadows of evening had replaced the sun outside the window. Gingerly he shifted, trying to find a better position to alleviate the nagging ache in his lower back. He gasped as the slight movement unexpectedly sent bolts of pain down his legs and the heart monitor sped up with each pounding throb. His breathing continued raggedly as his chest joined in with its own excruciating sensations. He moaned against his will and tried not to move, hoping the pain would die down and go away and let him escape back to sleep.

He clenched his fists and closed his eyes, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth slowly, counting to ten each time. It was the same advice he'd given patients often enough as they waited out the moments until it was time for more medication. Unfortunately, as the seconds ticked by, it became clear the technique wasn't doing anything productive. Every inhale and exhale brought only agony to the incision sight and stabs of lightening along the nerve endings in his lower body. Instead of better the pain was getting worse. Sleep seemed out of the question.

He opened his eyes and glanced around trying to decide what to do next. Just a few hours ago he had been making his first feeble attempts at walking, and in trying to prove something to himself had more than likely pushed too hard. The pain had been bad when he was brought back to the room, and he had been given a shot for it then. He had no idea how long ago that had been and if he was due for more or not. In all honesty he wasn't even sure what kind of pain medication they were giving him. All he knew was that at this moment the misery in his body was increasing exponentially.

Trying not to hyperventilate, he searched for a way to get the nurse's attention. The call button should have been easy to find on the rail of the bed, but everything appeared fuzzy and out of focus, and even the small movement of trailing his hand over the blanket seemed overwhelming. The doctor in him wondered why no one had noticed his distress considering he was hooked up to what looked like every monitor the hospital had available. Once all of this was over he'd have to take it up with Foreman since all the wires and equipment seemed useless when he needed them. He gently rolled onto his side to get a better look at the railing and experienced a blazing jolt of pain for his efforts that left him gasping and nauseous. With a soft, "Fuck", he started jabbing at the buttons, not caring what he hit in a desperate attempt to call for help. The situation was going downhill fast.

A soft voice penetrated his torment. "Dr. Chase? Do you need something?"

"I.." His voice was rough, ragged and barely audible. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I need…" Another wave hit him and he sucked in air. What should he say? I'm in pain? I need help? I might be dying? His thoughts degenerated into fractured pieces as he rode along a crushing torrent of sensations.

Before he could say anything else the door opened and a nurse rushed in, quickly assessing both him and the monitors with her eyes. He knew she would find an elevated heart rate and decreased oxygen intake. His face must have betrayed even more than the technology because her brown eyes narrowed in concern as she leaned over him.

"Take it easy," she said calmly, holding his wrist in her hand to manually check his pulse. "Can you tell me what's wrong?"

He shook his head as the nausea increased. He tried to rise up but that spiked the pain again and he flopped down instead. The next thing he knew she had lowered the rail of the bed and held an emesis basin under his chin. Weakly he vomited out watery bile as she used her free hand to support his back. The clenching of his stomach went on forever, mingling with the pain in his back, legs, and chest, and now his head pounded as well. The heaving finally stopped and he fell back on the bed, unable to hold up any part of his body at this point. His face was wet, and he realized tears had leaked out of his eyes while he squeezed them shut.

Never in his life had he hurt so much.

The nurse was speaking to him but he couldn't hear her words for the rushing in his ears. Surprisingly there was only one thought that emerged from the swell of agony.

"House," he whispered desperately.

She frowned and kept on talking. "Please," he begged, ignoring her completely. "Get House."

House would understand. House would help him. It was a crazy idea and yet the only thing that made sense.

The nurse's jibberish finally coalesced into something meaningful. "I'm contacting the on-call doctor. You aren't due for another shot for an hour but he might authorize more medication."

Chase couldn't explain what was happening and why he was hurting so much; maybe it had something to do with his nerves coming back online, but they were going to have to deal with it fast. There was no way he could endure this much longer. An hour sounded like eternity. "Hurry," he urged.

He languished for a few minutes, trapped within his growing desperation for relief. Every breath he took now required an effort and he'd broken out in a cold sweat. His body was warring with the urge to scream, cry, or puke. The fact a colleague was watching him lose control didn't really matter much anymore.

"Let's see if this helps some," the nurse soothed, and Chase turned his head to see her shoot something into the IV port. Within moments he felt the cool liquid enter his veins. He swallowed down the nausea and tried to be patient and wait for relief.

Gradually the fire in his chest diminished to nearly tolerable; however, the tendrils of torture in his back and legs only intensified. Now that he wasn't so focused on the pain around his heart and ribs, all his attention was completely taken over by his lower extremities.

"It still hurts," he said breathlessly and a little frantic.

The nurse flattened out her lips in displeasure. "I've given you all that I'm allowed. It'll be another four hours before I can administer more."

Chase started to panic. There was no way in hell he could make it five more minutes let alone four more hours.

"You have to do something," he pleaded. There was a blinding surge in his back and legs and he nearly came off the bed in response. Instead, he leaned over and vomited on the floor. "Oh, God," he moaned in between wrenching gasps. Something was desperately wrong with him.

"I need House," he demanded, his voice weakened by the intensity of the pain so it came out more whiny and less authoritative than intended. He didn't have enough function or strength in his legs to move much, but he shifted slightly, sheets going askew. He gripped the rail of the bed that was still up, knuckles white while he struggled for self-control. His nostrils flared and he grit his teeth, the back of his head pushed down into the thin pillow. Everything was funneling to the point that all he could concentrate on was the radiating, unrelenting _hurt_.

"Dr. Chase, calm down before you rip your stitches," the nurse admonished gently.

"Now, page him now!" Chase yelled, not caring who heard him. Monitors suddenly clamored, finally agreeing with him that this was not normal and entirely unendurable. He clenched his jaw before letting loose with a gut-rending scream. His back and legs felt like someone was shooting electric currents into them. "Find House!" he begged. "Please!"

HMD HMD HMD HMD

House leaned back in his chair and tossed his red and white ball in the air, wondering exactly how many times he had hit Chase in the head with the small sphere. Fifty? A hundred? At least three times a week for three years, minus the two years when Chase had worked in surgery, plus the three after he came back to the team. Fifty two times three times six. Nine hundred and thirty six. Wow, even he found the number impressive. He'd round up to a neat thousand and tell Wilson. Or better yet, he'd make Wilson guess. It would be more fun that way.

He held the ball in his hand and frowned, once more trying to figure out why Chase had refused his apology. He never apologized, and Chase knew it. Which meant Chase understood how important it was and still rejected the overture. Chase always forgave him, for everything, even hitting him on the head a thousand times, so why would he grow a backbone now?

Maybe a spinal cord injury made it easier to use a metaphorical backbone. In a perverse way it had been nice to see Chase stand up for himself when he could barely stand up at all. Those soft whimpers that accompanied each step the younger man attempted to take were seared into House's brain, but the anger that flashed in Chase's eyes made up for some of the physical weakness. Chase wasn't a quitter, that was for damn sure, and he wouldn't give up no matter how hard he had to fight to regain his mobility. House rubbed his own leg, fingers cresting over the familiar contours of the decimated muscle. If it helped Chase to hate him, that was fine, as long as the kid got back what House never could. He would poke, prod, and cajole until Chase stood on his own two feet, turned his back, and walked away. Chase might not accept an apology, but he'd accept that.

House set the ball down on the desk and reached for his cane, deciding to give his brooding a change of venue and go home. The beeping of his pager and ringing of the phone both broke the silence at the same time. He ignored the beeper and grabbed the phone, expecting nothing good on the other end.

"What?" he barked, hardly giving the nurse time to explain that Chase was asking for him before he slammed down the receiver and limped out the door. Chase wouldn't ask for him unless the situation was worse than dire. The boy was stubborn as hell and in no frame of mind to reach out to House for anything. Chase had already been stabbed in the heart and paralyzed by an embolism; what could have happened to him now? Not even Chase could have this much bad luck.

As House stepped off the elevator he immediately heard a commotion coming from the direction of Chase's room. After a few feet the general unpleasant sound coalesced into something that made him pause in his long stride; Chase was screaming. Nothing could have shocked him more. The young Australian never let his emotions overcome him; had even remained stoic as he related the news that he had no feeling in his legs. It was an unnatural sound that made no sense, and forced House to walk as fast as his own infirmity would let him to the door of the room where chaos lay within.

Two nurses were on either side of Chase attempting to hold him down while his body tensed and thrashed. Sweat glistened on his reddened face and the cords in his neck bulged as he tossed his head back. His hands were balled into fists and his legs, still weak, moved restlessly under a thin sheet. Monitors shrieked and a small patch of red penetrated the bandage on his chest.

"Hold him still!" a middle-aged doctor commanded from the end of the bed, and the nurses tightened their grip, which only made Chase open his mouth and release a guttural groan while trying to flinch away from them.

"What the hell is going on?" House shouted, fully entering the room.

All eyes turned to him, and the doctor frowned. "Get out, House, this has nothing to do with you."

"As Chase's medical proxy this has everything to do with me. Explain. Now." While he talked, House bullied his way past the doctor and gave an evil eye to the closest nurse, who wisely let go of Chase's arm and backed away, giving him room to stand next to the younger man. The part about being Chase's medical proxy was bullshit, but these idiots didn't know that.

House grabbed Chase's chin to get his attention. "Chase, look at me," he said firmly. "What's wrong?"

The intensivist opened bloodshot blue green eyes that took a second to focus. They widened when realization dawned and something swam within their depths that looked like deliverance. It tore at House in a way he didn't want to think about too much.

"House?" It was a question instead of a statement. Before House could provide a reply, a surprisingly strong hand gripped his wrist. "You've got to…." Chase stammered, gasping for breath. "You have to….." he closed his eyes again and let out a series of short grunts. The eyes popped back open as he swallowed convulsively. "Make it stop….make it stop, House, I…..I….." The desperate pleading trailed off as another scream tore through the boy and he dropped his hand to clutch at the sheets, his entire body rigid with pain.

House understood now why Chase wanted him. It takes one to know one.

"What have you given him?" House barked at the attending, who folded his arms defensively.

"Everything I can. He's at the maximum for morphine at this point after surgery. There is nothing that indicates he should be in this level of pain."

Smug little bastard. "Gee, then I guess I'll tell him to stop screaming cause you say so," House retorted. "Could one of you twits get an oxygen mask on him? Or are his O2 sats lying, too?" He leveled a withering gaze on the two nurses, and the older one quickly moved to retrieve a mask. House watched as she lifted Chase's head and fit the plastic over his nose and mouth, and Chase immediately raised a hand toward the uncomfortable device.

"No touching," House admonished, moving the hand back to the bed, not pleased at the way Chase's chest kept heaving up and down, the red spot growing slightly. A glance at the monitors showed that his vitals had barely moved, and his heart continued to beat wildly. "Unfortunately, if we don't alleviate his pain, whether you think it should exist or not, he's going to have a heart attack. And considering he just had a hole plugged in his ticker, I don't think he's in any condition for another major event. So what do you want to do? Stand here and wait for him to die, or get this under control? I'd ask my intensivist for a consult but he's indisposed at the moment."

Chase chose that second to let out another moan muffled through the mask and to twist around on the bed, his legs stretching and kicking feebly. He battered his hand against House's, then latched on and squeezed hard; when Chase opened his eyes to stare miserably the diagnostician decided to ignore the hand-holding for now and save it as ammunition for later. Even he drew the line at kicking puppies.

"I'm not going to risk an overdose based on your judgement, House," the doctor said flatly. "Everyone in this hospital knows how you deal with pain and even though Doctor Chase has been on your staff for a long time I doubt he wants to follow you down that path as well."

"So you're going to withhold treatment from a patient based on _my_ addiction? And that makes sense to you how?" House challenged, anger rising with every passing second. "You are a complete and utter moron."

"Really?" the doctor replied, eyebrows raised. "What do you suggest, Doctor House? That I drug a cardiac patient and hope his heart doesn't stop beating? Because I think that scenario is a lot more likely than a cardiac arrest brought on by phantom pain."

House tried to stay calm, he really did. But this man was just so _stupid_. Besides, there were tremors going through Chase's hand and into his; it was distracting. "Look at the monitors; something is causing him to react his way," House rationally pointed out. "Give him a shot of dilaudid and see if that helps bring his vitals back to normal."

The doctor shook his head. "No. Morphine only and he waits until the scheduled administration time. We'll fix any popped stitches and monitor him closely for other changes or arrhythmias. He's not currently in any danger of dying, just uncomfortable, and if he keeps moving around there are always restraints. I'm doing this by the book, House; none of your diagnostic nonsense."

House felt the hand in his go limp and a choked sound, nearly a sob, came from the bed. "Cut that out," he said sternly, focusing on the patient instead of the pathetic excuse for a doctor. "We need to talk." With deft hands he lifted the oxygen mask off and Chase blinked as he tried not to pant without the extra assistance. "Where exactly are you hurting?" House asked.

Chase licked his lips. "Legs and back," he answered breathlessly.

House nodded. "What about the chest?"

"So….some. Hurts to breathe. But not…...not as bad as the rest."

"They had to crack your chest open to get to your heart, so that discomfort makes sense. Just keep trying to take deep breaths; we don't need pneumonia on top of everything else. Now the legs and back, what kind of pain is it?"

"Shooting, burning, it….ah….." he flexed and closed his eyes, pounded his fist on the bed. "For fuck's sake, House, give me something."

"Alright, alright, settle down. I'll convince this ass to give you the good stuff, just trust me," House coaxed. "What would you rate it on the pain scale?"

Chase choked out a hysterical laugh. "Ten, damnit. Twelve…." He snapped his mouth shut, then released it again in another strangled yell that left him limp and shaking. He caught House's gaze. "It's neuro…"

"Neuropathic breakthrough pain, I know," House finished for him. "Now stop diagnosing yourself and let Dr. Idiot here have something to do."

"That's enough!" the doctor in question stated. "Get out of this room or I'm calling security. If you need to be informed of anything I'll let you know."

"No!" Chase shouted back. "He needs to stay….I want him…." He was gasping again and House pushed him back onto the bed and gently resettled the oxygen mask on his face, watching until Chase was breathing somewhat normally again.

"Don't move," House said, pointing a finger at his employee, then he turned and scowled at the doctor. "Fine, I'll leave," he said, raising his hands in surrender, cane hanging in the crook of his arm. "Call me when he goes into cardiac arrest. I'll approve the DNR." He limped toward the door, not glancing back to look at Chase, fully aware of the shock and disappointment that had to be on the young man's face.

House walked out of sight, turning into an alcove and sliding down into the nearest chair. Chase wasn't yelling and screaming like he had been earlier, but House was still close enough to hear the lower groans and shouts. He was intimate enough with pain to know that at some point it wore you down into an exhausted surrender, when you realize there is no escaping its unyielding grasp. The doctor was right, the pain might not actually kill Chase, but it could make him want to die and House wasn't going to let the situation get to that point.

He took out his cell phone and called his Ace in the hole.

HMD HMD HMD HMD

Foreman sighed when he heard the familiar ringtone of his phone. For a moment he considered just ignoring it and continuing across the parking lot to his car and going home. Would it be a big deal if he pretended he hadn't heard it? The hospital wouldn't fall apart.

Maybe it would. Sometimes he hated being responsible.

He shifted his briefcase to his other hand and dug the cell phone out of his pocket. "Shit," he said when he saw House's number flash on the screen. The phone had barely stopped ringing before it started again. He might as well answer, because if House was on a mission he wouldn't be ignored.

"It's late and I'm tired," Foreman said after he punched the button and brought the device to his ear. "I don't have time for whatever game you're playing tonight."

"I'm insulted," House replied. "You imply that I sometimes bother you with issues that aren't important and are designed merely to entertain me."

"Cut the crap and get to the point," he said harshly, steadying the phone between his shoulder and ear as he unlocked his car door. Nothing House could say would keep him from going home, changing out of his suit, and crashing on the couch with a glass of wine and a bad movie. After the past few days he had earned it.

"There's a problem with Chase; I need your help."

Except maybe that. He still hadn't quite recovered from the shock of finding out that Chase had been stabbed in the heart by a patient. Seeing Chase in the ICU had brought back way too many memories of his own brush with death. There was something inherently wrong with the image of the man he had known for a decade lying in a hospital bed fighting for his life.

He tossed his briefcase in the backseat of the car, shut the door, and turned back toward the hospital. "What's wrong?" he asked. He had seen House blow up after the investigation was concluded and knew it was because the older man was upset by what happened to Chase, even if he pretended not to care. House wouldn't be calling if there wasn't a reason.

Foreman was already in the elevator when House finished explaining the situation. He agreed that Chase would never react so extremely unless he was unable to control himself. The Australian kept his walls up at all costs and it would take an enormous amount of pain to tear them down so completely.

He found House leaning on his cane in the hall outside of Chase's room. "It's about time you got here. What took you so long?"

"It's been less than five minutes, House," Foreman pointed out. "What do you want me to do?"

"Tell this moron he's no longer Chase's doctor and let me take over his case. I can't let him kill the only blonde, blue-eyed, Australian intensivist slash surgeon I'm likely to find. You know, interviews."

"Interviews, right," Foreman echoed, heading into the room. His eyes immediately fell on Chase, who was pale, sweaty, and moaning, and somehow looked even worse than he had earlier that day. He started coughing and shifted to the side; the hovering nurse quickly took the mask off his face and held a plastic bin while he retched pitifully. His vitals were a mess and he kept choking even after the nurse settled him back on the bed.

"Dr. Foreman, what are you doing here?" The on-call doctor frowned as he looked up from the chart he was holding.

Foreman glanced over his shoulder at House, who shrugged and smiled benevolently.

"I wanted to check on Dr. Chase. He doesn't seem to be doing very well. What's the problem?"

Chase blinked his eyes open and they settled on Foreman before moving on to House. He shook his head as if to protest something then bit his lip and the muscles in his neck tensed as a low sound tore from his throat.

"How bad is it?" Foreman asked, moving next to the bed.

Chase's dull eyes were watery pools as he tried to focus.

"Don't be a martyr," House broke in from near the door.

The Australian's chin quivered a little before he spoke. "Bad," he whispered. "Really…...really bad." His chest heaved as his breathing hitched. "Shit."

"I have this under control," the on-call physician said curtly. "We're monitoring his vitals and I'll administer more morphine on schedule."

"There won't be any reason to give a shot to a corpse," House interjected dramatically.

"He isn't dying, House," the doctor responded. "There is no clinical reason for the level of pain he claims he's experiencing."

"Says the man who probably never had more than a hang-nail in his life. I'd like to see your reaction to having your nerves set on fire. I bet you'd already be crying for your mommy."

Chase chose that moment to gasp and the heart monitor started beeping erratically.

"Cool," House said. "I think I recognize that tune. It's called I'm in agony and the stress on my body is going to make my newly patched heart burst."

Foreman narrowed his eyes at House as he weighed the situation. House leaned on his cane and raised his eyebrows in response. They could argue over the situation, but House would end up right in the end; he always did. And absolutely no one knew pain better than his former boss. Plus the muted sounds from Chase were enough to convince him the younger man actually might be dying. "You're off the case," he told the other physician without further discussion. "And I expect you to sign up for a refresher course on pain management."

"Are you seriously going to listen to the ravings of a drug addict? His opinion on this subject is completely compromised," the doctor protested.

"Doctors." The nurse called their attention back to the bed, where Chase had started vomiting again.

"Yes, yes I am," Foreman stated firmly. "You can leave. I'll discuss the matter with you tomorrow." He folded his arms and waited while the doctor pursed his lips and nodded. "Fine," the other man said, barely sparing House a glance as he left.

"It's been nice working with you!" House called out as the door swung shut. "Dilaudid, now," he immediately told the nurse, who wisely moved to follow the order without argument.

"Is that safe?" Foreman asked, concern in his voice. "It could suppress his respiratory system."

"It just means your nursing staff will have to do their jobs," he increased his tone slightly on the last part, "and monitor him closely. "Leaving him in this much pain isn't any less dangerous."

Foreman sighed and nodded in agreement. He'd have a firm talk with the nurses on duty before he left for the night to make sure they kept close tabs on Chase.

House poked his cane into Foreman's ribs. "Move it," he said, forcing his way next to their colleague's bed.

"You left," Chase accused softly, once House was close enough to hear him.

"You knew I'd be back," House answered. "Put this on before you suffocate." He carefully lifted Chase's head then slipped the oxygen mask onto his face. Chase closed his eyes and took a few breaths before his features twisted up in pain again. "Hang on, it won't be long," House coached as Foreman watched in fascination. "Here, you know you want to." The diagnostician held out his hand and let Chase clasp it in a tight grip. They waited like that until the nurse returned and administered the medication.

It didn't take long for the strong opioid to have an effect. Chase's muscles relaxed and he seemed to sink into the bed. The lines on his face softened somewhat and his breathing settled. Finally his hand went limp and released its hold on House's, falling to his side.

House let out a sigh and stepped back, scratching the scruff on his beard.

"That was…..nice," Foreman said, somewhat at a loss of words.

House tilted his head to the side studying the sleeping figure in front of them but didn't say anything. Even unconscious, Chase's mouth was still tight and his forehead creased. The pain had been squashed down for the moment, but it was ready to snarl back into existence given the opportunity. The common foe connected the two of them now, making Chase even more like House whether he wanted to be or not.

"You know it's alright to care about him," Foreman pointed out carefully. "We've all been through a lot together." He felt like he was treading on a sheet of razor thin ice, ready to shatter at the slightest pressure.

House gripped his cane. "If you're going to run this hospital, try hiring some halfway competent doctors," he complained, limping past Foreman on his way to the elevator.

Foreman shook his head and left to talk to the nurses before retracing the steps to his car and driving home. He was well and truly exhausted.

Unfortunately, he didn't sleep much, waking up every few hours. He finally gave in to his own worry and crawled out of bed before the alarm went off and made his way back to the hospital to ensure that Chase had survived the night. It wasn't that he didn't trust his staff, but Chase had an infuriating way of making things difficult, and he needed to see for himself that the guy was still alive.

As he entered the darkened room, Foreman realized he shouldn't have been concerned. He grinned at the sight of the unshaven, disheveled, guardian angel that had taken up residence in the chair beside Chase's bed. It was clear to see that House had spent the night keeping vigil over their co-worker, colleague, and truth-be-told, friend. Chase slept soundly, his face turned toward his boss so that House would be the first thing he would see when his eyes blinked open. It was surprisingly vulnerable of the Australian.

Over the years, a lot of people had compared Foreman and House and accused the neurologist of wanting to emulate the diagnostician. In reality, Chase was the one who had taken on the mantle of their mentor. Chase wouldn't ever admit that he had developed a similar approach to medicine and life as the older man even though it was pathetically obvious to anyone who paid attention. In fact, Foreman used to be jealous of Chase's streak of House-like brilliance, but he wasn't any more. The intensivist had suffered enough, even if some of that suffering was self-inflicted. If misery was what it took to be like House, Foreman was happy to pass on the honor to Chase whether he wanted it or not.

The monitors beeped softly and rhythmically, reporting that for the time being everything was as it should be. Foreman slipped quietly into the hallway and headed for his office. He tucked the secret of House's caring and Chase's need away in the back of his brain for safekeeping. There was no reason at the moment to expose either man. He'd let them bluster and pretend like neither had anything more than passing concern for the other despite it being another transparent lie.

As House always said, everybody lies.

HMD HMD HMD HMD

Chase returned to awareness slowly, one muffled sense at a time. His mouth was incredibly dry and something scratched his nose. His hand flopped onto his chest in an uncoordinated and clumsy attempt to lift it to his face and touch the annoying plastic tube.

"Take a sip," someone said, lifting his head and sticking a straw to his lips. Chase let some of the warm water slide down his throat before he coughed and the straw disappeared.

"How do you feel?" the voice asked.

"What?" Chase muttered, trying to get his brain to function. The world seemed hazy and indistinct, like everything was thick and slow, including him.

"I asked how you feel? Are you in pain?" The words were clipped and short, to the point.

Chase considered the question, vaguely remembering moments of excruciating pain that he was scared might return along with awareness. He blinked his eyes at the blurry shape hovering over him and felt his breathing get a little more labored. There was pain around the stab wound, in his lower back, and down his legs, but thankfully nothing like the night before. However, the fear of it returning was terrifying and he whimpered at the thought.

"Settle down," the person said, "I'm going to top you off. No need to go down that rabbit hole again. Don't say I never did anything for you."

Within seconds, something cold circulated through Chase's veins. He could hear a familiar step and click that his muddled mind finally identified as House. The rest of last night's events flooded back, and he recalled his desperate pleas for the doctor's help. He groaned in embarrassment. House would never let him live this down.

By the time he got his eyes to properly open, the door was swinging shut and he was alone. The weight of the medication pulled him back toward sleep, and it took all his strength to turn his head in the direction of the glass separating his room from the hall. He couldn't tell if the tall figure walking past was House or not; for all he knew the entire thing had been nothing more than an agony induced dream. House would never hold his hand or lift his head for a drink of water. It must have been a hallucination. Chase let his eyes slip closed. He clenched his hand, trying to determine if the rough touch of House's skin had been real or imaginary.

It had felt real. He wanted it to be real.

He had thought he might never forgive House. It would be a convenient way to separate himself from the complications the diagnostician had brought into his life. But if last night had actually happened, House had taken care of him in a way that no one else had in longer than he wanted to remember. Was that enough to erase House inadvertently causing it all in the first place? Chase didn't know the answer, and now wasn't the time to figure it out. His pain was currently at bay and he couldn't stop the tug of sleep on his tired body. As he gave up to the comforting darkness, it was with the odd sensation that no matter what happened next, he wouldn't be facing it by himself.

For now, that would be enough.


End file.
